Take My Whole Heart, Too
by seemsseamingly
Summary: Napoleon starts taking Illya's hands when they start to shake, and it calms him down (Thanks @kageillusionz for hyping me up)
1. Chapter 1

They're debriefing with two of Waverly's subordinates, and Napoleon can feel Illya getting angrier and angrier next to him. It had been a hell of a mission, beginning with their contact getting poisoned and ending with an armed chase through a Methodist chapel. Two civilians are in the hospital, Gaby will be on crutches for a month, but all the men across the table can talk about is their lack of subterfuge.

The other agents, Denforth and Hastings, are obviously new and British to the core; they're not pleased with an arrogant American and a monosyllabic Russian 'mucking things up.' It doesn't seem to matter to them that they'd gotten the files they needed or that no one had died.

Napoleon is sneaking glances at his partner, in between placating the pair of them with tight nods and disarming smiles. While Illya's obviously not happy, he's not shaking with rage either. Napoleon entertains the thought that they might get out of here before dawn after all.

"And another thing! That Teller woman ought to be reminded where her priorities lie, or she could find herself reassigned."

He spoke too soon.

Illya goes very, very still next to him. "Her name," he says carefully, "is Agent Teller." He gives Agent Hastings a glare that normally has people reaching for the nearest weapon. Napoleon would know, he's been on the receiving end of it many times. Hastings must be blind, because he continues.

"Then she'd better act like an agent; civilian involvement is unfortunate but her mission was to retrieve the files. Not play the hero. I'd say she got off lucky with a wound like that." Denforth nods smugly with his partner, and Napoleon can see Illya's fists start to tremble underneath the table. All he wants is to get cleaned up and go to bed. Perhaps check on Gaby. Have a drink. But if Illya gets in another fight with a fellow agent, he really will be reassigned.

He closes his eyes for a moment and utters a quick prayer, then he carefully reaches out and rests his hand on top of Illya's. The other man tenses even further. Denforth begins to flick through paperwork, oblivious to Illya's glare. Napoleon gently strokes the side of his hand with his thumb. "Deep breaths," he mutters. Illya shoots him an annoyed look, but slowly, ever so slowly, his fist unclenches, until it's lying flat against his leg, shaking.

Napoleon keeps stroking as he reaches for the stack of papers with his other hand. "Well, we'll be sure to pass that along. We'll just sign these and be out of your hair." He gives them a strained smile and scribbles his signature down. He slides the paper over to Illya, who signs it so rigidly it's like he's carving his name into solid oak instead of signing a mission report.

Napoleon stands and allows his hand to slide up to the other man's shoulder. Illya stands as well, brow furrowed but hands stable. "We'll be going then. Gentlemen." He leaves before they can answer, pulling his partner along. Illya is uncharacteristically compliant, and Napoleon slows when they reach their rooms, turning and letting his hand finally drop. "Are you alright? You're quiet."

Illya nods curtly, not meeting his eyes. "I am fine. I do not like that man."

Napoleon smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "Couldn't agree with you more, I felt like punching him myself. Now get some rest. Gaby will be fine."

The corner of Illya's mouth twitches. "I do not take orders from you, Cowboy."

Napoleon laughs and turns away, opening his door. He steps in, then turns to shut it. "We'll see about that. Goodnight, Peril." He closes the door. He sincerely doubts the other man will sleep much tonight, and definitely not without checking on Gaby first. It's the only reason why he doesn't do so himself.

He stretches, cracking his back, then grabs his robe and heads for the bathroom. He deserves a bath. A nice long one. And maybe a drink.

Definitely a drink.

\- • • • -

"We'll see about that," Napoleon says, laughing. "Goodnight, Peril." He closes the door. Illya stands there for a moment, then heads for the elevator. He knows he won't be able to sleep tonight until he sees Gaby with his own eyes, and he knows that the only reason Napoleon hasn't checked on her himself is because he knows his partner will.

He presses the button for the elevator, and stands back to allow a handful of agents to get off when it arrives. They nod to him as he sidles past them, and he tips his head in reply. He recognizes one or two of them from past missions. They'd all been tolerable, why had Waverly assigned Denforth and Hastings to this one?

He gets on, presses the button for the infirmary, and folds his arms as the doors close, eyeing the corners distrustfully. There are cameras everywhere here. Not as good as his own agency's, but better than the Americans'.

Speaking of Americans . . .

Illya's brow furrows. No one had ever been able to do that. Granted, not many had tried. The closest he'd ever come to not giving in to the shaking anger he often felt was when Gaby grabbed his arm in Rome, her voice tight as she told him to hand over the watch. Even then he'd barely kept it together, and he'd still injured one of the muggers.

There had been people in the past who'd tried to restrain him during such episodes, to hold him down or try to talk him out of it. But Napoleon had done no such thing. All he'd done was cover Illya's hand with own, warm and still. He'd told him to breathe, whispered it out of the corner of his mouth so Hastings and Denforth couldn't hear. Rubbed his thumb gently back and forth.

If anyone else had done that, he would've thrown off their hand and bared his teeth at them. It would've felt like mockery. Why is it different with this man, this infuriating, unorthodox, and reluctant American agent? He doesn't know. But he intends to figure it out, to know why this man can stop his rage with just a touch.

The elevator dings, and he looks up with a start. With a shake of his head, he strides out of the elevator and looms over the nurse at the front desk. "Teller," he grunts. "Gaby. British, brown hair, gunshot to right calf. What room?"

The nurse looks at him over the top of her glasses, unimpressed, then turns to her computer. She hits a few keys and nods. "Hmm, Teller, she came out of surgery about half an hour ago. You're Agent Kuryakin, yes? I'll give you her room, but you're only allowed fifteen minutes. Patients need their rest and doctors need their space. Am I clear?"

She turns back to him and raises an eyebrow. Illya glares, then nods. The nurse rolls her eyes. "Room 112. Fifteen minutes."

He turns and heads for the the recovery wing, the nurse muttering behind him.

 _"Field agents!"_

Illya strides past the row of endless, identical rooms. _108, 110, 112._ He knocks quietly on the door, then eases it open. Gaby is slumped in a mound of pillows, snoring lightly. He allows himself a small smile. She's alright. Her hair is a mess, and she has a bruise on her chin, but she's alright.

Her injured leg is under the covers. He knows that touching her would wake her, bullet wound and anesthesia be damned, so he edges around to the end of the bed, squinting to read her chart in the light from the hallway.

It's a through and through, no shrapnel, and the bullet had missed the bone with millimeters to spare. She'll need crutches for several weeks, but no permanent damage. She's alright. Satisfied, he stands, and after one last look, he leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

He still doesn't think he'll sleep tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time it happens, they're on a stakeout. The life of an agent isn't all shooting and running and car chases, a lot of it is hurry-up-and-wait. Napoleon is used to it and Illya is focused on the feed from the room next door, but Gaby lost interest a while ago. Forbidden from pacing because of the thin hotel walls, the young agent has commandeered the only pair of headphones and is glaring at the small television screen, chin in hand.

They've managed to acquire a room directly next to the American mob boss, but after that their luck had stalled. Vainer hasn't so much as gotten out of his chair in over two hours.

Gaby begins to tap her foot impatiently, and Illya slowly turns his head towards her. She rolls her eyes at him, but stills. He turns back to the screen, just as there's a knock next door.

Napoleon gets up from his seat by the window and comes to stand behind them, hand on the back of the Russian's chair. Vainer's men stand as well, and one of them checks the peephole, a hand on his holster. After a moment he laughs and swings it open, ushering in three more of Vainer's men and a thin young woman in a miniskirt and a halter top.

As Vainer looks up, Gaby puts the headset down on the table and turns the volume up enough so they can all hear.

"Well, well, well. Whadda ya' got there, boys?" The mob boss stands and moves to sit on the edge of his desk. His smile is cruel and the woman–girl, really–wraps her arms around herself nervously.

"I-I'm Lulu-" The three agents jerk as Vainer slaps her, hard enough to snap her head around. She brings a hand to her face in shock as the men laugh.

"Listen, doll," Vainer says. "You only speak when spoken to, got it?" Lulu nods hurriedly and glances towards the door, but the men behind her shift to block it.

Next door, Gaby's jaw is clenched, and Napoleon and Illya's faces are rigidly blank. One of the men who brought the girl in shoves her foreword, and the goons form a circle around her as their boss slides off his desk and saunters closer, hands in his pockets. "I think we're gonna have some fun with you. Might even pay ya, if you're . . . friendly enough." Lulu's eyes are wide, her cheek reddening. She can't be more than sixteen.

There's an awful silence in the other room. "We have to do _something_ . . ." Gaby's voice trails off. They can't compromise this stakeout. They _can't._ And they all know it.

Illya tries to concentrate on his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, but his vision blurs and all he can hear is his mother's voice, brittle and far too high, telling him that it's alright, this is just one of his father's friends, everything will be fine. 

Her voice mixes with countless others: his superiors, the officers who told him about his father, a handful of classmates, and, achingly, his partner's, scorn in their tones as they remark on how 'friendly' his mother was. He can't go next door, can't stop them, he _can't_. But he can't _not_ , he can't just sit there and watch, and if he so much as knocks his chair over, they'll be noticed.

He starts when Napoleon speaks up. "Gaby, call the front desk and tell them we have a noise complaint." He wrenches his gaze from the screen and reaches for Illya, carefully telegraphing his movements. "Peril. We won't let them hurt her. I promise."

He cups the back of Illya's neck with one hand and reaches for his clenched fists with the other. Illya closes his eyes and grabs for it with both hands, shaking. "C'mon, partner, breathe with me." Illya sucks in a lungful of air and opens an eye. He's face to face with the other man, noses almost touching.

"Really, Cowboy," he croaks, "'partner?'" In the background, he can hear Gaby on the phone. He glances up at the screen. The men are ignoring the girl for now, laughing at something Vainer is saying. He curls his lip and Napoleon knocks their foreheads softly together, making him look back.

"Hey, pot, kettle, Red Peril." His eyes are so blue, bluer than anything Illya's ever seen, and his hand is warm in his and on the nape of his neck. He's still upset, but he's more in control now. He doesn't understand how this man's touch can calm him like this, doesn't understand why he allows it. He doesn't understand it at all.

He looks down at Napoleon's hand in his. It's smaller, but no less calloused, with faint scarring on the knuckles and nimble fingers that can lift the hat right off your head. He knows that from experience; the first time he'd caught Napoleon at it, he'd snatched his cap back and shoved it inside his jacket, grumbling at the American to keep his thieving hands to himself. They're nice hands, he supposes, but ordinary, really. So why does his heart calm and his shaking still when they touch him?

He frowns, then sits up as the front desk manager knocks on Vainer's door. Napoleon's hands slide to his lap. "Alright, now?"

Illya gives him a sharp nod, then relents. "Yes. Thank you." His vision is clear and his hands are steady again. He turns back to the TV, pulling his hands free, and he can feel his teammate's eyes on him. Thankfully, Vainer answers the door just then, and Lulu ducks out of the circle and darts out the door, heels clacking. Then men let her, laughing and jeering. She's safe. He'll figure out the mystery of Napoleon's touch later, right now he has a job to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Illya just barely has enough sense left to not slam the door behind him; he shuts it firmly and stalks down the hall, fists clenched and starting to shake, his breath coming too short and too fast. He turns the corner and yanks open the door to his hotel room, eyes narrowing even further when he spots Napoleon leaning against the wall by the window like he owns the place, drink in hand.

Hearing the door open, Napoleon lifts his gaze from the view outside. "Peril, there you are! I-" he cuts himself off and straightens. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Illya grits out. Avoiding his partner's concerned look, he steps in and kicks the door shut behind him. "Out of my room."

"Well, I would, but you're blocking the door." Illya ignores him and heads for the bathroom. His ears are starting to ring and even his vision is shaking at this point.

Napoleon follows him. "Seriously, what happened? I thought it was just a check-in." There's a pause, and the other man must've noticed his trembling by now because his voice softens. "Peril. Illya. Hey, look at me?" And Illya hates _hates_ the gentleness in Napoleon's tone, and he hates even more that a part of him likes it. So he turns and punches the mirror.

The glass crunches under the blow, spider-webbing his reflection into a million pieces. He keeps his fist pressed against it for a moment, feeling blood well up on his knuckles, then he jerks around to face Napoleon, fully intending to push him out of the way and go for the coffee table.

Napoleon knows how dangerous he is like this, has seen the wreckage of his anger before. But he simply squares his jaw, pulls out a handkerchief, and before Illya can protest, catches his bloodied fist in his hands. He tuts softly. "Did you really have to do that to the mirror? You know how much I like my own reflection." He wipes away the blood and splintered glass, then sets the cloth on the counter and reaches for Illya's other fist. He runs his hands up and down the taller man's arms, soothingly from wrist to elbow and back again, stroking the back of his hand with his thumb. He doesn't say anything else, just stands there and holds him, Illya's harsh breathing filling the quiet.

They stay like that for a while, Illya doesn't know how long, before he releases a long shuddering sigh and haltingly drops his head down to meet Napoleon's gaze. It's warm but not pitying. He wouldn't be able to stand it if it were.

Illya's fists are somewhat relaxed now, and Napoleon slides his hands down to cradle them. He squeezes lightly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Illya shakes his head. "No, I . . ." He can't get the words out, but Napoleon seems to understand. He just steps backwards and tugs Illya towards the couch, pulling him down to sit next to him.

Napoleon let's go with one hand to reach into his pocket, and pulls out a small rectangular wooden box, patterned with alternating dark and light brown squares. It's about five inches by two inches and an inch thick, with hinges on one side and a clasp on the other. "It's a travel chess set, see?" He sets it on his knee and fumbles, one-handed, with the clasp. He makes no move to let go of Illya's hand, though, and Illya doesn't suggest it.

The box opens to reveal a miniature chess set, the pieces carefully packed in velvet slots. Napoleon dumps them out on the couch and flips the box over, balancing it on his lap. Fully opened and laid flat, its patterned surface serves as the board. "I got it in Naples; remember that store we cased?"

Illya does. T.H.R.U.S.H. had set up shop disguised as a dusty knick knack store; in reality, they'd been smuggling weapons and ammunition.

"You stole it," he says flatly.

" _Appropriated_ ," Napoleon corrects with a careless wave of his hand. "Besides, the store was a front; I doubt they cared or even noticed. Anyways, I thought that since we don't always get to stay in five-star hotels with marble chess sets . . ." He trails off awkwardly, out of character for the usually smooth and put-together man. He looks away, picking up one of the kings and rolling it between him fingers. Feelings are not really something any of them have skill with, and Ilya is . . . touched by Napoleon's gift. There is a strange, fluttery warmth in his chest, and his limbs no longer shake. Napoleon is still focused on the chess piece in his hand, so he allows himself a small smile.

"Do you play?"

Napoleon looks back at him. "I'm no prodigy, but know the gist of it."

"I'll teach you."

Thankfully, chess doesn't require more than one hand apiece. They set up the board together, and play until Gaby knocks on the door, demanding they take her to the five-star restaurant across from their hotel.

Illya is still frustrated with his KGB superiors, but it's not something he can change right now, so he turns his attention to the story Gaby is telling. She is gesturing wildly with her fork as she recounts the story of a particularly impudent bellhop, cheeks flushed. Usually, it wouldn't be so easy to let these feelings of helplessness and anger go, but sitting here, with the sensation of Napoleon's knee pressed against his and the weight of the chess set in his pocket, it seems almost effortless.


End file.
